


Problems

by itdefiesimagination



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Kieren Walker can't catch a break, M/M, Pointless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 11:44:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4434245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itdefiesimagination/pseuds/itdefiesimagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is hard. Math isn't any easier. </p>
<p>(aka Kieren Walker gets back in the swing of things.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Problems

“I’m not understanding this.”

“Neither am I. Obviously. That’s the problem,” Kieren looks up, glares toward the doorway, looks back down before squinting in a fresh bought of concentration. His leg disturbs a stack of papers at the edge his bed, sending them leafing through the air, scattering across his bedroom floor, and softening bright white as they fall in line with streaks of afternoon sun. Judging by the way the room is lit, and Simon’s scowlish posture, it must be some time past four. Already. _Great._

“I think they want me subtract this here. Or maybe . . . it’s . . . maybe it’s one of those imaginary numbers.”

“. . . .” Simon blinks once, slumping against the door frame with renewed disinterest. 

“You know – the imaginary ones? The numbers that you _think_ are numbers,” Kieren prods the paper emphatically. “But they’re actually letters. Which is why they’re imaginary, because you have to imagine the numbers.”

“ . . . .”

“Because they’re not . . . they’re not real numbers —”

“No.”

Kieren groans, presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. He has rearranged himself so he’s sitting crosslegged, one knobby elbow balancing on each knee, and each knee knocking against two (or three, or four) calculus books. Another few are laid open in front of him, and Kieren bores into them with an empty stare, fingertips steepled against his mouth in exasperation. “. . . What am I doing?”

“No idea.”

“What am I doing? I’m on question three. I’m twenty four years old, and I’m on question three.” 

“No, you’re not.”

“I am! I am. I’ll show you. I’ve got questions one and two right. They’re in the back of this . . .” Stretching forward from the waist, Kieren fumbles for the largest book and props it open to a random chapter; his fingers crease pages as he goes, silent seconds passing, his lips pursing tighter and tighter to one side.

“I mean, no, you’re not twenty four,” Simon corrects over the desperate rustle.

“Oh, spare me, Simon. Five years since the Rising,” continues the teenager (?), counting off on his fingers in an attempt to prove that he is definitely, without a doubt, an adult (?) “One, two, three, four, fi—” 

“You trying to prove your age, or that you know how to count?”

“ _I_ don’t know, you trying to prove that you’re a dick?” 

Simon shrugs, hands in his pockets; still, he smiles at the barb – one he knows comes less from malice, more from annoyance. Eighteen year olds, right? Ha. Well – no, actually. Better not laugh at that. Better not be even mildly amused at that. Better not – 

Better let it drop. 

So he does, says instead, “Do you want me to come back later?”

Kieren shakes his head. 

“Do you want me to go downstairs?”

No response. 

“Do you want to tell me why you’re doing all this,” Simon waves his hand in the direction of the books, “in the first place? I told you, I’m not understanding.”

“It’s math, Simon. It’s something you do with numbers. Or something you try to do with numbers, but then it turns out you can’t, and then you start thinking of all the other things you can’t do, and then it’s like ‘What’s the answer to number 23?’ ‘Why can’t I cook things in a microwave without burning them?’ ‘Am I a good person? Really? Who am I?’ ‘Oh god, I’m a failure, please save me from myself.’ That’s what math is. That’s what math is.” Kieren grips some stray papers, grips too hard, breathes heavily. 

“Do you -- did you ever -- have some sort of . . . asthma? You’re out of breath. I could . . . call . . . Sue.” He inches back, just beyond the doorway, and it’s not as subtle a move as he thinks. 

“No! Simon!” Kieren throws his arms out in exasperation. Simon steps back into the room. “No, I don’t have asthma! I have an entrance exam tomorrow morning!”

“But you’re an art major. Why would you have to take a math test? That’s what I’m not understanding,” Simon clarifies. Then, vaguely disgruntled: “I know what math is.” 

“Well, you were an English major. So.”

“ _So_ I had to do other things.” 

“Yeah, exactly. I’m going to be an art major. This,” Kieren lets the calculus book thud closed so he can hold it in front of his chest, on display, “this is the Other Thing.” 

“Can I help, at least?”

“Probably not. This isn’t Yeats.” 

The amount of disappointment in Simon’s body language is disproportionate to the task at hand. Kieren clocks this, reassures: 

“I just can’t talk to you right now. I mean, if it makes you feel better, I can’t talk to anyone right now.” He sighs and adds, “I still like you.” (It’s cocktail of requisite social grace and guilt – the kind you only have to mix when you’re around people you care about, the kind that doesn’t get you drunk but leaves the headache and the vague aftertaste of failure. Usually you don’t vomit, but – well – that’s always a possibility.) 

Simon straightens, crosses his arms, recrosses his arms. “I – still like you, too.” 

“You’re making it weird,” Kieren winces. 

“Sorry.” 

“You make everything . . . so weird.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t worry, I’ll allow it. Apologizes-Too-Much-And-Says-He-Likes-Me weird is way better than Tries-To-Stab-Me-But-Then-Doesn’t-Actually-Stab-Me weird,” says Kieren. Simon cringes, and Kieren amends, “Joke! Joking. It’s a thing people sometimes do when they have a lot of stuff they need to get done and are trying to avoid doing it.” 

He smiles for a second, but his face quickly settles back into academic fatigue. “Now please go talk to my mother. If you want to stick around, I know she wants to trick you into telling her all my secrets. I should be down in a few hours, if I’m still partially alive.” 

“If,” Simon squints. 

“If,” Kieren squints back. 

Simon smiles, backing out of the room again; this time, he makes it all the way to the end of the hallway before Kieren hears a few quick footsteps, and a few more, and now he is back in the doorway, back stiff. “Good luck,” he quips (feigned nonchalance, real embarrassment.) He ducks out as fast as he can. 

Kieren leans forward over the mess of papers and books to shout after him. “Hey. Hey! It’s not luck, it’s skill.” 

But Simon is out of earshot, down the stairs, and hopefully not running his mouth in front of Sue. Hopefully . . . 

Kieren lets his head thunk down against one of the textbooks. “I’m not understanding this.”

**Author's Note:**

> That was ridiculous. Find room in your heart to forgive. 
> 
> (I originally wrote this for this for The Queen [@kidanivillage on tumblr], and thought I'd share it here. It's been 3000 years, In the Flesh fandom. 3000 YEARS.)


End file.
